


Easy Target

by SunshineAndRainbows



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Lotor joins team voltron, Lotor-centric, Unreliable Narrator, for now, lotor is paranoid but it's not really paranoia if the entire universe literally wants you dead, my fav season 5 prediction, very subtly implied
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-12
Updated: 2018-03-01
Packaged: 2019-02-01 06:53:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12699657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunshineAndRainbows/pseuds/SunshineAndRainbows
Summary: Every move was deliberate, every action filled with intent. He had meant to land his ship, he meant to stand from his cockpit, and so, he meant to walk slowly, deliberately to meet his hopeful allies.He had certainly meant to say something clever and suitably dignified in greeting.He hadn’t meant to collapse the moment his feet hit solid ground.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this is inspired by like half a dozen different tumblr posts especially  
> http://severalbakuras.tumblr.com/post/166650255810/i-hope-the-first-thing-lotor-does-in-season-5-is
> 
> and Radioactivesupersonic's entire Lotor tag (especially pointing out that a common strategy for Lotor is to present himself as an easy target and surprise his opponents by not actually being weak when they try to take him out)

“I know we’ve had our differences in the past, but I think it is time we had a discussion.”

 

     The preliminary negotiations to arrange the actual meeting were tedious. Although technically brief, he was tired enough that it felt like phoebs, but they came to an agreement. He would land. They would land. They could talk.

     He landed on a nearby planet—not Naxzela, even with the bomb disarmed, none of them were willing to risk trusting the planet. Several varying kinds of rebel ships landed after him, as well as, oddly enough, a standard empire ship.

     Voltron landed behind them, fully formed. The threat was implicit. _Don’t try anything_.

     He paused to breathe, to think, to prepare.

     His generals had finally given up on him. He’d failed them too many times, and they’d run out of patience; he had let himself forget that they could—a mistake he wouldn’t be repeating. With them gone and his father officially out for his blood, all that was left for him was to place his head between the least of his enemies’ fangs and try to convince them not to bite down.

     Dignity. Deliberation. It was the only thing they would believe. It was the face he’d already shown them—a cool air of superiority and a plan that was always two steps ahead.

     All he had to do was make them believe it.

     Every move was deliberate, every action filled with _intent_. He had _meant_ to land his ship, he _meant_ to stand from his cockpit, and so, he _meant_ to walk slowly, deliberately to meet his hopeful allies.

     He raised the cockpit roof and climbed to his feet, swaying for just a moment. He straightened his back, tucking away every sign of weakness. He would not be presenting himself as an easy target; not when it was true.

     When they saw him exit, the rebels started filing out of their ships. Perhaps his leaving his ship was what it took to convince them he would not attack. Voltron itself disassembled and the paladins joined the small, diverse crowd waiting for him.

     He heard one of the paladins exclaim “wait, _that’s_ Lotor?!”

     Someone replied, presumably some attempt at placation, because the same voice shouted again “But he looks _nothing_ like Zarkon!”

     Lotor allowed himself a private smile at that.

     He climbed down to meet them.

     He had certainly _meant_ to say something clever and suitably dignified in greeting.

     He _hadn’t_ meant to collapse the moment his feet hit solid ground.

 

~*~*~*~

 

     He woke up cold and stumbling forward in a place he did not know. His knees hit the ground and—in an all-too familiar motion—he fell prone.

     It took him far too long to regain enough awareness to struggle to his hands and knees, and even longer to reach something close to ‘upright.’ Once he did, he flinched back hard enough that his back slammed into the cold… _pod_ he had just fallen out of. Before he could do _anything_ , it retracted into the floor, leaving him sprawled out in a heap, totally surrounded.

     He forced himself to take measured breaths, then forced himself to choose a deeper measurement. The room was circular with searingly bright lighting. The paladins of Voltron were in front of him, a few blades of Marmora behind, and to the side a single coalition rebel and an oddly unarmored man had their backs to him as they poured over a console. Not risking the vulnerable instant it would take for him to climb to his feet, nor their reactions if he were to move suddenly, he shifted slightly into a position he could easily spring away from if they did decide to attack.

     They had changed him into a peculiar white bodysuit. The manacles that had stayed stuck on his wrists, even after he broke their connection, were finally gone. Of course, so was his armor, and any weapons he had had on his person.

     And, if he was honest? The dignity he had intended to project was long gone.

 

~*~*~*~

 

     When they shuffled him into an adjacent room, he was prepared for the interrogation to begin. Regardless of his initial intentions, he had been too weak to keep up the front he wanted them to know. They had _seen_. They _knew_. Lotor knew what happened when people thought he was disadvantaged; they never hesitated before going in for the kill. The interrogation would be harsh. They healed him, so they likely didn’t need to worry about hurting him too badly. He measured his breaths and prepared for the worst.

     He wasn’t prepared for someone to toss him a change of clothes—with some comment about them being better than the cryosuit they had put him in for the healing pod—and give him privacy to change.

     The room seemed to be some sort of medical examination room. An examination table sat in the center; a couple of chairs were pushed into a corner. Besides that, the room was barren. The cabinets were empty and the shelves and tabletops were cleared off. The door was locked. There were no other exits.

     The clothes were black and hopelessly baggy on him, likely belonging to someone of a similar height, but much more substantial build.

     They were _much_ better than the cryosuit.

 

~*~*~*~

 

     When someone finally did come for him, it was the yellow one, carrying food and drink, accompanied by a Blade of Marmora

     The Blade—mask up, but distinctly short for a Galra—lurked in the corner, watching.

     The yellow paladin—in armor, though without his helmet—set the plate and cup on the examination table. He pulled a chair out of the corner and sat on the other side of the table. When he noticed that Lotor hadn’t moved, he nudged the plate and cup towards Lotor.

     Lotor let out a scathing laugh, forced amusement, “do you truly believe that such transparent hospitality will lower my guard?”

     “Look.” The yellow paladin’s face was serious, “I'm not gonna tell you that we trust you, ‘cuz—ha!—we don’t. But we… Actually, can you like—” he gestured at the remaining chair in the corner, “—pull up a chair? You’re very tall and loom-y, and really, I’d usually just stand but it’s been a really long… honestly, ugh, multiple months, but _especially_ the last few days have been tedious. So can we just. Sit and talk?”

     “Of course.” Lotor did not emote, but fetched the chair regardless. He’d never been called tall before.

     Once he sat, the yellow paladin continued, “Okay so, you were in the healing pod for a couple days, and we got your medical scans. And they were, uh… yikes.”

     Quiznack.

     “Your shoulders were _both_ dislocated. You had what looked like a blaster burn on your chest. You had… uh, something Coran recognized from when young Alteans would fly too close to stars and it has an actual name” he was speaking fast enough that his words started blurring together “but it’s really long and tricky to say so after like a dozen failed attempts we just started calling it ‘Icarus Syndrome’ and it’s like, almost a stroke? But you guys are sturdier than humans so extreme heat and lack of blood flow to your brain because gravity is less deadly or something? Oh, we also learned you’re half-Altean, but that’s not a health issue, just a fact. Actually it's probably the opposite of a health issue because apparently Alteans handle extreme heat better than Galra? Coran said that most Galra can't even sweat, but then with Alteans you'll see the slipperies. So uh... that's... neat...”

     Lotor did not move a single muscle from where he lounged in the chair. He did not react. He _would not_ react.

     The yellow paladin fiddled with his gloves in the long ensuing silence. His eyes settled on the plate of green goo he had brought in. “ooh, _and_   you probably haven’t eaten or drank anything in a while? We aren’t precise on how long, just that you were already running on empty. Plus healing takes a lot out of you, so refueling afterwards is just kind of standard procedure.”

     He nudged the plate and cup towards Lotor again. When Lotor didn’t respond, he seemed disappointed.

     “Plus there’s the whole _your dad put a hit out on you_ thing. You’ve obviously had a rough time of it. Do we _want_ to know what your deal is? Sure, but—”

     “So this _is_ an interrogation.” Lotor smirked. They had seen too much already, guessed far too close to the truth, but perhaps they could still believe in a smug, perceptive Lotor. Perhaps he could still convince them he would make a better ally than target.

     “Am I to assume that these,” he gestured to the dishes on the table, “have been altered?”

     The yellow paladin recoiled. Shocked that Lotor had so easily caught onto his game?

     Lotor turned his attention towards the food, “I suppose I can rule out poisons. You went out of your way to heal me, how inefficient to kill me now.” Inefficient, yes, but he’d dealt with inefficient peoples before. “No. Much more likely it’s something to aid your interrogation.”

     “What sort of _monsters_ do you think we are?” the yellow paladin looked disgusted.

     An act? Lotor had yet to catch him in a lie, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t been lying. Only that Lotor didn’t know his tells.

     “Look, if it makes you feel better,” the paladin bartered, “I’ll be your taste-tester. Anything you eat, I’ll eat some of too to prove there’s nothing bad in there.”

     Lotor nodded, “Nothing outright harmful then: something that could affect us both but would be of no great detriment to you.”

     Perhaps a truth-serum, or something to render him unconscious, or—

     “Or perhaps something that would only affect me, even if we both consumed it. Clever.”

     The paladin gave him a considering stare. “You are a very paranoid sort of person.”

     Lotor ignored him in favor of examining the drink. He swirled it in the cup and sniffed it. It seemed to be water. The drugs were probably in the food then; it was difficult to find anything useful and tasteless enough to hide in water.

     Difficult, but not impossible. His father’s witch had always managed.

     He gently placed the cup back on the table.

     The yellow paladin sighed, “look, eat or don’t. I don’t really know how to convince you that I haven’t done anything to it, besides, I don’t know, telling you I haven’t? I haven’t, by the way.” He stood, as if to leave.

     “Where are your generals?” the blade in the corner spoke up for the first time.

     It took everything Lotor had left to contain any outward reaction.

     Judging by the way the yellow paladin’s eyes narrowed—turned on him with a laser-focus—he hadn’t contained well enough.

     “We parted ways.” Lotor said. Airily. Like it didn’t hurt. Like it had never even stung. Like their loss didn’t feel like the last straw for some fragile part of him he had trusted them with.

     He refused to hold it against them. They had banded together to survive, and after Narti... He himself had convinced them that there was only one way to do that. It was his own fault they betrayed him.

     He still wished they hadn’t.

     The yellow paladin stared at him for some time, then left without a word. The Blade followed him out the door.

     They left the food behind. Lotor didn’t touch it.

 

     He had gone much longer without eating.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lance wears blue, is paladin. Ergo. “Blue Paladin”  
> There will be confusion regarding this later.

     Lotor had almost been dozing in the chair when the door opened again. The blue paladin entered.

     “Hey so uh, I'm not sure what you said to Hunk earlier,” it was the same paladin who had exclaimed when he had first climbed out of his ship. The voice was less shrill for the lack of yelling, but still recognizable, “but he was pretty adamant that you join us for dinner, and I lost the grand interspecial rock-paper-scissors tournament soooo… yeah alright, hup! Let’s go.”

     That was unexpected. “You would trust me at your table?”

     The paladin was already turning away, but he turned back to respond, “I wouldn’t say _trust_ , but uh…” he gestured vaguely, flippantly, to Lotor’s entire person, “you aren’t really much of a threat right now, plus we’ve got all six paladins—”

     Six?

     “—a few blades, and a handful of coalition rebels, so even if you did do something ‘untrustworthy’ I'm _pretty_ sure we could handle it.”

     Lotor had already been sitting still, but at that he froze. That sounded like a blatant trap, or at least a foolish situation to willingly allow himself to fall in. they already considered his mere existence untrustworthy, and _not a threat_ only meant they’d be confident enough to try and take him out. Considering his condition—not wounded but still tired, and _worse_ , unarmed and without backup—and their numbers, they’d probably succeed.

     Before he could remember how to respond, a hand started waving in front of his eyes. The blue paladin was looming in his face, spewing gibberish and asking if he was there, as if he were not physically present.

     He batted the hand away. “How… courteous of you.” He sneered, settling his posture into something more relaxed, more arrogant. He had never had a throne, and he would never have a throne, but he was well-used to acting as though any given chair could serve the purpose.

     The paladin stepped back, crossing his arms and looking away. His eyes settled on the plate on the table.

     “Man, I know food goo takes some getting used to, but it’s pretty efficient for filling you up. Plus it looks like Hunk worked his magic: added a little this and that. You should eat.”

     Confirmation of their tampering and yet more encouragement to consume it. The blue paladin had mentioned him speaking to ‘Hunk,’ apparently there was much more to the yellow paladin than Lotor had anticipated. More concerning than how Lotor could not catch his lies when he claimed to have not altered the food was his apparent mystic capability. He had not felt the same chill in the back of his mind that he felt in the witch’s presence—or in the presence of the _things_ she made—had felt on Narti and tried so hard to ignore, to blame on trackers or spies or his own paranoia until—

     Perhaps the yellow paladin’s so-called ‘magic’ was different from the witch’s. Less powerful, ergo, less noticeable. Perhaps in time he would learn how to sense it like he had with her’s.

     Lotor turned his nose away from the food in projected disdain.

     “Alright, fine.” The paladin snapped, “Do you want me to take it back to the kitchen then, if you’re too good for it?”

     “If you’d be so kind.” Lotor waved him away.

     The blue paladin snatched the dishes, the water sloshing out of its cup, and stormed towards the door.

     Lotor was expecting the door to swish open to admit him, then once again close and lock behind him, leaving Lotor in peace. Instead, the door opened to reveal another figure in paladin armor, this time in pink. There was no pink lion, so why they had a pink paladin was beyond Lotor. The blue paladin had mentioned six paladins though, so perhaps she was the extra. Lotor sat upright, watching their exchange.

     “Lance?” she said.

     The blue paladin—Lance, apparently—gestured angrily back at Lotor, “I tried! I tried, he’s a jerk, whatever, let’s go. Hunk said he was making pizza rolls again and you know I gotta be there for that.”

     The pink paladin sighed and pushed past him, into the room.

     “Wha—no, Allura, he sucks! Let’s just go—”

     Allura? It couldn’t be—

     “I am Princess Allura of Altea.” She spoke directly to Lotor.

     It _was_ her. He had known Alfor was going to hide her as well, but…

     His father had found _him_.

     “I am Prince Lotor of—” not anymore “—nowhere, as of late.”

     But of course, she knew that.

     “You are not joining us for dinner?” she spoke professionally, her voice cool—cold even.

     Oh.

     He…

     Yes, he could do that. He straightened his back, allowing something more formal and detached come over his features. “It seemed prudent.”

     He spared a glance to where the blue paladin was glaring at him. When he had realized she was not going to heed him, he had settled by the door, still holding the dishes. He seemed to be pouting.

     “That is unfortunate. The others had been hoping to ask you a few things over the meal.”

     Of course. _This_ was to be the interrogation he had been expecting.

     But then, he did fully intend to give them as much information as he could against his father, and if he was talking—if he was being _useful_ to them—they were less likely to try to kill him just yet, no matter how easily they could. All he needed to do was survive long enough to form an escape plan, then he wouldn’t even need to worry about when they would decide he’d outlived his usefulness.

     “In that case, how can I refuse?” he swept to his feet, graceful despite the stiff posture he’d adopted (and absolutely not swaying with exhaustion; he wasn’t even injured anymore), “lead the way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also funny story, apparently it’s canon (ish, like, mentioned in one of the podcasts) that Lance and Lotor won’t get along. I didn’t even remember that until like halfway through the first scene and I was like “this is what lance would say! This is how Lotor would respond! … this is how lance would react… and then Lotor would… oh… oh dear…”  
> Original plan was to have Lance fetch Lotor for dinner, nbd. Had to change that.
> 
> And next chapter is dinner! Whenever I get around to… finishing that…


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lololol posting this at late o’clock with like no editing bc at this point if I wait any longer I might lose the nerve to ever post  
> @ canon please don’t eviscerate me

     The dinner table was thoroughly populated, as the blue paladin had mentioned. There were only three of the supposed six paladins in the room; the yellow and red ones were conspicuously missing, and the blue one had left through a side door as soon as they had entered the room.

     The green one was talking animatedly to one coalition rebel among five, waving her arms around and nearly falling off her chair. The rebel responded much in kind. The other coalition rebels seemed content to watch the conversation unfold, only interfering to steady the chairs as necessary.

     On the other side of the table, the black paladin was engrossed in a discussion with two blades. The shorter of which must have been the one to accompany the yellow paladin previously, but now that his mask was off—

     Allura cleared her throat. The conversations stopped. All eyes were on him.

     And he was performing again, spine straight and face blank.

     One of the rebels—the green paladin’s conversation partner—stood. “Lotor.”

     He was dressed in coalition colors, yet obviously the same species as the rest of the paladins.  Or at least, the rest of the paladins, besides Allura. None of them had under eye markings, and when the yellow and blue paladins had spoken to him he had noticed their teeth were more similar to his own; some fanged, some flat. They weren’t Alteans.

     The rebel had already had his attention before speaking, Lotor merely raised an eyebrow in response.

     They weren’t Alteans, unless they were. It had been ten thousand years since he’d last seen Alteans, they could have evolved in that time. The Galra had certainly grown in diversity since they scattered among the stars. How funny it would be, to wake up and barely recognize either side of his heritage.

     “I'm Matt, uh—” he hesitated, almost unsure, “I wanted to thank you? For what you did at Naxzela.”

     Lotor didn’t have a response for that. He hadn’t been expecting them to thank him. It was a bad move to open a negotiation—by acknowledging a debt. They would be the first ones he’d actually encountered to make that mistake. He would take it.

     “So uh… on earth, I was trained as a biologist, among other things, and lately, for the rebellion—” a half hidden wince, “—I’ve gotten a lot of practical experience as a doctor.”

     Lotor had a bad feeling about where this was going.

     “You were in _really_ bad shape.” The rebel Matt regained confidence at the worst time, force entering his words, “you passed out the first opportunity you got, and I'm _only_ surprised that it wasn’t sooner. So why? What _happened_ that left you on your own, _hella_ injured, and willing to zip right into the middle of a battlefield, to be nursed back to health by people who were your enemies like, the day before? That’s what I don’t understand.”

     It would take him too long to unfreeze long enough to come up with a good response, if there even _was_ a good response. He thought he had been ready for an interrogation, he _had been_ ready to spill as many secrets of the inner-workings of the empire as he could, but he wasn’t ready for this.

     And of course Rebel Matt brought up the healing, why not start with thanking him, when the debt was already paid?

     Before he could formulate a response, the yellow paladin busted through the side door, carrying a platter in either arm and balancing a third on his head. He was followed by the blue paladin and an Altean man, also laden with platters. The blue paladin was carrying a tray of cups in one hand and balancing a pitcher on his head, free hand hovering by the handle.

     “Annnnnnnndddd dinners ready!” the yellow paladin announced, sliding his platters onto the table.

     Lotor was shuffled into a seat and passed an empty cup. Everyone was eating servings scooped from the same dish—some sort of casserole—along with a few different side dishes. Lotor didn’t recognize anything on the table, but everyone was eating it, including the blades and Alteans. He was forced to concede that it was not drugged, not even with something only half his heritage would be susceptible to.

     At least, the _casserole_ wasn’t. The side dishes were too numerous to track who was eating which ones.

     “Water?” the green paladin nudged the pitcher towards him.

     It was a show, he realized, for his benefit. How could they drug the food, if everyone was eating from the same plate? How could they have drugged the water, if he poured his own cup?

     He… didn’t think that they did.

     He poured a cup and risked a sip.

     He tried to ignore how nice it felt, how long it had been since he’d last drank, and tried to remember what it had felt like when the witch—what to expect if he miscalculated.

     He had been little—freshly awake, thousands of years out of place, sad for the loss of his mother, and scared of what his father had become. The witch had been confident that she could twist him into whatever she wanted, and his father had been content to let her try—for a time.

     She had done things to him: things he had been too young to understand or things she had successfully erased. He knew that when he first awakened he had remembered his life on Daibazaal, and even on Altea. He had had dark hair to match his mother’s, and undereye markings like all Alteans. He had remembered his mother’s face. he had remembered others.

     He _had_ , and then he did not.

     His father had gotten her to stop, if only to stop wasting her talents on such a fruitless endeavor, and he’d been exiled, even as a small child.

     But the water. It had been after he’d gotten suspicious of her. Growing wise to her ways had been a painfully quick lesson to learn, but outsmarting her? It seemed she was still steps ahead of him.

     He had been given water, and when it tasted pure he drank it. The effects had been creeping and warm, and he had gotten through the entire glass before he felt them.

     He was larger now, and more resilient, and much more capable of powering through the effects that had floored him as a child.

     And he was terribly thirsty.

     He took another mouthful.

 

~*~*~*~

 

     “So, Matt,”

     “Yeah Coran?”

     “I’ve been wondering about the alternate title you gave Nybvryyylxian’s illness… what was it? Ickrus Syndrome?”

     “Icarus Syndrome?

     “Yes, that.”

     Lotor watched silently, surprisingly ignored.

     “Alright so… On Earth, the story of Icarus was this cautionary tale about like pride or something? Warranties being invalid if you don’t use a product for its intended purpose?”

     The green paladin elbowed him in the ribs.

     “Ow! Geez ok! So the story goes that there’s this guy named Daedalus and his son Icarus. Daedalus was this genius inventor what was imprisoned by this evil king who wanted Daedalus to make cool inventions for him. And Icarus was just kinda there too I guess, not really sure why, I can’t remember the last time I heard this story.”

     “I don’t think they ever actually say,” the yellow paladin interrupted, “he’s just… _there_.”

     “hostage.” The green paladin suggested, “ _’invent cool shit or the boy gets it!’_ ”

     “Anyways. Daedalus was a genius, but the king who had him imprisoned evidently wasn’t, because pretty soon Daedalus had created a couple… mechanisms so that he and Icarus could just fly right out of where they were kept.

     “before they went, Daedalus pulled Icarus aside and warned him, _‘ok, these crafts are fragile and made out of scraps, but if we’re careful they’ll be enough to get us free. Don’t fly too close to the planet or you’ll get shot down, and don’t fly too close to the sun cuz these things cannot take the heat. Just be careful and we’ll be fine.’_

     “But Icarus… maybe he was drunk on freedom, and got too caught up in the moment. Maybe he was convinced he was a good enough pilot that he could get away with it. maybe he was a little kid who thought his dad’s inventions were infallible. I couldn’t tell you what he was thinking, but what happened was he ignored Daedalus’s warning.

     “He flew too close to the sun; his wings melted, and he fell.”

     The green paladin was staring in awe at the rebel Matt. Lotor barely heard her whisper, “you translated it.”

     “Yeah, no duh.” The rebel Matt muttered back, “ _I_ don’t wanna explain Ancient Greece. Do _you_ wanna explain Ancient Greece?”

     “Oh hell no.”

     “He fell.” The taller of the two blades deadpanned.

     “Yeah”

     “Into the _sun_?” one of the coalition rebels asked, aghast.

     “suuuurreee seems that way haha…” the rebel Matt trailed off, obviously lying, but why?

     He resumed in the following silence, “I mean, the story is straight-up ancient. Like. Multiple thousands of years old, and was like, traditionally regaled orally, so like, it changed every time you heard it. There’s ‘a few’ versions where he somehow fell all the way back to the planet, and—out of all the ways he could have ended up dying from that alone—fell in an ocean and _drowned_. I figured this was a more scientifically sound end for him. Plus, let’s be real, it’s pretty much human tradition to turn old stories into new stories by editing details to relate better to a modern audience? Sooooo… I think I did pretty good.”

     “You did great, Matt.” The black paladin smiled, “general themes, plot points, and morals are intact; I’d call that a better win than most modern adaptions seem to manage.”

     “Are all Earthling cautionary tales so… bleak?” Princess Allura interrupted.

     The rebel Matt turned an odd shade of pink and made a halfway-aborted gesture, “I mean? Kinda, yeah. Like. We’ve got other genres, more predisposed towards happy endings, but might as well throw an ‘everyone dies, the end’ into cautionary stories. Gotta hammer it in for the kiddos that it’s dumb to do dumb shit, or else you get young adults who do dumb stuff all the time and actually end up getting themselves killed.” For some reason he glanced over to the small blade, who was resolutely focused on his casserole.

     "But anyways, yeah so that's the Icarus thing. It's just this really old story that's pretty much the go-to reference for anything flying too close to the sun. Some little kid who died. There's a lot of songs about it."

 

~*~*~*~

 

     Lotor froze, mid-bite.

     It would have been easy—so accursedly easy—to slip something into the food that they had already taken an antidote for.

     The food soured in his mouth.

     “Oh no. no, no, no. That’s not a good face.” the yellow paladin pointed at him accusingly with his spork, “that’s a _‘I figured out another way Hunk could have poisoned me’_ face, which, c’mon, seriously? I tried to cover all my bases. What did I miss?”

     “Why would we poison you?” the small blade stared at him, “we just healed you, and considering what you did at Naxzela and the price on your head, we’ve got a pretty good reason to believe you’re… not on Zarkon’s side, at least.”

     “If nothing else, you’ve probably got good info.” The green paladin said, “And hey, I’d hate to see that go to waste.”

     It was a relief to hear that the rebels kept such practical company.

     “It was less _poisoning_ , and more _drugging_.” The yellow paladin clarified, “Quote _‘something to aid interrogation’_ so like a truth serum I guess.”

     The blue paladin leaned across the table, suspicion coloring his features, “If you’re planning on cooperating, why be so afraid of a truth serum?”

     Because the truth was dangerous. Because the truth was that he was holding himself together with a thread. Because the truth was that he was well past his last resort and far, far too vulnerable. Because the truth was that if they caught him under the influence of any sort of drug he’d probably break down _crying_ or go unresponsive in record time and he _could not afford to do that_.

     Instead he said, “I’ve found that waking from an altered mental state, with no recollection of the preceding events, is always… unsettling, regardless of intent.”

     The black paladin reacted. Some sort of flinch and freeze, and a spark traveling down his arm to a mechanical hand that Lotor hadn’t paid nearly enough attention to before, but now?

     He knew whose handiwork that was.

     “You were a captive of the witch.”

     The small blade had been making worried noised at the black paladin, but at that he turned on Lotor, fire in his eyes. “What can you tell us about her?”

     “She is a despicable creature.” No. they wanted information: things they could use against her. “She considers her _altercations_ to be gifts, or, favors to be repaid. She’s sadistic. I have not seen her in active combat, but considering… what I have seen, I doubt she would depose of a foe efficiently, unless pressed. Not if she had the opportunity to _play_ first.” His hands were _not_ shaking.

     “She prefers mental manipulation, but no underhanded method is beyond her.” Lotor pressed on, smooth and composed as ever. His hands were not shaking, and it meant nothing that he tucked them under the table, out of sight. “She commands the druids, and is in charge of collecting and refining the quintessence the Empire runs on. She’s well disliked among the upper echelons of command, who prefer my father’s more… direct methods. And yet, she is my father’s right hand and sole advisor, with unparalleled sway in his decisions. While he is predictable and, ultimately, easily countered, I’ve yet to find a tactic particularly effective against her—”

     Offensive _or_ defensive, and now that he was disowned from the empire she would be free to lose whatever restraint she had kept while handling him before. Meanwhile, every defense he had tried to put in place had crumpled to dust before him. She would be coming for him, and he had _nothing_ to stop her.

     “Her spies are—” his voice did _not_ feel thin “— _usually_ easy to figure out, if you know to watch for—”

     And that was too far. His voice froze in his throat.

     “’usually,’ as in… not always?” He didn’t even know who said it.

     His fingernails had turned into claws, and they were digging into the flesh of his palms. A thin line of blood was showing, closer to the magenta his mother must have had than the blue of the Galra.

     “You were doing something Zarkon wouldn’t like.” The little blade deduced, “she caught you out and told Zarkon. That’s why you’re… here. What happened to your generals?”

     He was frozen in place, staring at the blood on his hands beneath the table. His ears were pinned back, low enough that even the paladins with their short, still ears could probably read him. _Stupid_. He was usually better than this. Why wasn’t he _better than this_?

     The blue paladin yawned out loud: an extended noise that traveled through at least two octaves and made half the table jump at its suddenness.

     “Wow, sorry, sorry, long day, long night, you know how it is. Anyways, you gonna finish that?” he pointed to Lotor’s plate, “cuz you haven’t touched it in a while, careful, it might get cold.”

     “Uh, Lance?” the yellow paladin interrupted, “that one’s actually supposed to be served cold.”

     “—gooonnnnna get warm.” The blue paladin corrected, “C’mon, this is dinner, not debrief. Geez.”

     The entire table stared at him.

     “Look, I'm just sayin, it’ll keep, food won’t. Plus, im hungry? And it’s really awkward if you guys are all just silently listening and I'm over here stuffing my gob. Bad atmosphere you guys, c’mon, be considerate to your friendly neighborhood red paladin.”

     Red paladin? But there was no one in red armor. The blue one seemed to be referring to himself, but—

     “And you!” The… Paladin Lance turned on him, “Hunk went through all this effort to blatantly not poison you, and you’ve barely touched it!”

     Well that was hardly fair. He had already eaten more than half the serving he had taken, but all the same, he nodded, words spent, and turned back to his plate.

     It was delicious.

 

~*~*~*~

 

     “One last question, all cards on the table,” the black paladin announced after they had finished eating, “what do you want out of all of this, Lotor?”

     “I want…”

     There were some things that were to stay unsaid, living in his father’s empire—exiled or not. Some sentiments that could not risk being spoken aloud—words that, once loosed, could never be retrieved. There were things so traitorous that they could not be entrusted to the very air, much less another soul.

     But Lotor only wanted one thing.

     “I want my father dead.” He said, his voice stronger than he had expected it to be, real conviction in his words, “I want him _dead_ , and everything he and his witch ever built to be nothing more than bitter memories already half forgotten.”

     There was a long silence.

 

     “Well,” the black paladin was smiling, “I think we can work with that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nybvryyylxian – (nib-vrrrrr-ee’-yilk-see-an)  
> Three ys in a row, and they’re all pronounces differently. Plus a rolled r. not easy stuff for your average English speaker to get past the tongue. Maybe some of the paladins would be better able to nail the pronunciation, but for the sake of things, it was easier to just use a different name.
> 
> I wanted there to be more quality keith&lotor interaction, but it just didn't happen? sorry guys, these emotionally crippled half galra boys do what they want
> 
> A brief timeline of headcanons   
> \--Allura got born  
> \--sometime later, Lotor got born  
> \--Lotor’s parents were… that way. (also I really like the headcanon that Alfor and Honerva were siblings?) Lotor ended up being raised on Altea (which accounts for his Altean accent, weapon, sensibilities, etc.)  
> \--he was a lot younger than Allura, and she’s not the greatest with kids, but they adored each other.  
> \--Coran definitely played a part in raising him.  
> \--then uh oh the war happened! Allura was like 16-17 and Lotor was like 10  
> \--Lotor was kept away from most of the war stuff on account of being a little kid.  
> \--Alfor hid Allura away with the black lion  
> \--at the same time, he hid Lotor with the red lion  
> \--haha oooooooooopppsss   
> \--this is why the empire had the red lion at the start, and why Lotor is no longer 10  
> \--lotor’s loyalties were kinda tilted towards the Alteans he grew up with. More than that, I like to hc that he used to super resemble Honerva.  
> \--haggar figured she could fix that, and took him under her wing as her new experiment.  
> \--some of Lotor’s best memories were of Altea  
> \--Haggar got rid of those  
> \--but what’s that canon quote? “Memories cannot be fully erased; there are always remnants” something like that? Guess where she learned that  
> \--so he was a little bit like shiro? Couldn’t directly remember much, but still influenced by his experiences.  
> \--so Haggar’s efforts don’t really work, and Zarkon dgaf about the project so he sends the small child into exile  
> \--with several years away from Haggar’s continued influence he’s… kinda got it figured out. He might still be missing a few faces (like Coran’s) but he’s… at least functionally stable in his own head.  
> \--Lotor survives, makes some friends and some plans and it’s all fine and dandy until he reaches 16-17 and gets called in to serve as emperor pro-tem  
> \--and the rest is history

**Author's Note:**

> Hunk is offended to be accused of tampering with the food. he is a *gourmet,* this is a matter of *pride*  
> He's also extremely perceptive as to when people are hiding things and/or bad vibes. this wasn't supposed to be an interrogation, but that didn't stop him from learnin things
> 
> ... I could see myself continuing this? If I get inspired as to "what happens next"  
> as for now though... it is what it is


End file.
